


From the Woodwork

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Humor, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New author challenge; the (first) auctioning of Bag End as seen from a very different point of view! Under 1000 words itself, forty minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Woodwork

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  
  
And the spoons were sure to be last.

The oak paneling sighed and grumbled to itself, though it couldn't stretch much because it was quite firmly up against the sandy soil of a burrow in Hobbiton Hill.Perhaps the front windows had a better perspective. Not being able to stretch much put it in a testy mood, of the sort to scrunch itself down and pretend to be asleep, trying to remember the last time it had been so disturbed.

Always someone bustling about these days.The burrow had settled for so long that an appreciable layer of dust had floated down and coated everything in the still air.Quiet, agreeable, not like these shuffling footsteps everywhere up and down stairs, through doors, hanging out windows. The villiage lads were loud, much louder than Gamgee and son had ever been,and more than a little clumsy with the furniture.Likely as many had barked their shins as scraped the paneling's ribs, and at least one of the curly-headed fellows was due to fall and bash in his head if he continued to yaw merrily out the window.Hollering all the way down, no doubt.

Two cases of crockery, followed by the little end table that had wandered all over the house in Bilbo's days.For a long while it had been hanging around a dumpy stave-rack and that too was carted out. Air flowed through the round door, flung wide to reveal a bright May morning in the Shire.It was answered by a returning air from the depths of the cellar, smelling of damp earth and stone.

In this breeze the paneling was decidedly ticklish.Papers and parchment flapping about, tattered like old cloaks, crackling like the two beady-eyed old women still yammering in the kitchen.Treasure?Treasure.They had already rifled through the drawers(no map),scaled the chimney(soot), andnearlydestroyed the front garden in search of secrets, finding nothing buried but carrots and potatoes.Just _who_ would get the antique china was none of the oak paneling's concern. _It_ was the burrow's quality feature, and stayed always, time and tides.

Out went the pots, the pans; tables and chairs cantered past like strange beasts, horns in the air.

It had begun with the umbrella stand.Old Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had had her eye on that umbrella stand ever since she'd stopped by Bag End in the three-week rain.Always the spry one, she was the first to act on, but not to voice, the general suspicion that strange old Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, Esq., had not only gone off in the middle of autumn(in the rain)with a bunch of very odd-looking strangers, but had actually disappeared!More importantly, he was not coming back.

As certain as cats and fiddles, and she would have those spoons.The paneling sighed as the growing mumble outside strengthened into a curious crowd at full din.Drowning out nearly all was the excited running drone of the auctioneer. The running commentary drifted in with the scent of lilacs, neither of which interested the paneling.

It sounded like a Proudfoot. Far too much like one Aldous, Proudfoot.Bag End's living room walls would listen no further, for Proudfeet were as inordinately proud of their own voices as they were of their foothair. The sound of his voice would take all week to fade. Why must such a reliable wall always be subjected to such treatment?

Now clothing—some very fine waistcoats too, none yet with real gold buttons, mostly brass, but they were shined up nicely.

More was passing, as if for selection by each panel: A chair.That chair!The paneling had not seen that particular chair since Bilbo was a boy of twenty five.All this time it had been hiding behind shutters in the guest bedroom, to keep its color from the sun streaming in.Aldous had no right to sit in that chair.Proudfeet were always putting their feet up on things.

And then…giggling.Giggling?In this burrow?From somewhere near the back kitchen came the quick slam of young hobbit feet.Two of them, as if their lives depended on it, coming down the hall and laughing. A flash of something slender and bright in the hand of one, and they were gone.Bouncing curls and speeding feet, that's all the paneling could ever see of hobbit children, for the most part.These two were more than friends.Brothers, by their voices. 

The mantelpiece was swept clear of all saleables, all except the portraits.Those would remain, but it didn't necessarily do the paneling much good, for portraits as a general rule do not make good conversation. Silly paints, they never made eye contact.All in all, the day was getting to be quite a grumpy one, and it was not even second breakfast yet.

The paneling would forget this nonsense and attempt to sleep, as there was nothing better to do and likely very little more to see.

The spoons. Sweet heart of oak, there was a wail rising about the spoons.Apparently Lobelia was not going to be getting a full set—as there was one missing, she had gotten quite a good price for it however.Even hobbits cared about such things, at least the ones originally from Harbottle.

There would be more fuss to come, that was the only thing aged oak, neatly crafted and set into the walls of Bag End, could be entirely sure of.After all, the master of Bag End had always been a strange fellow, hadn't he?


End file.
